


Safe Harbour

by green_violin_bow



Series: True Minds [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Alternate Universe - Persuasion, Awkward Conversations, Awkward First Times, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Wedding Night, a decade of wanting one another, and no sexual experience, good thing they love each other so bloody much isn't it, mean embarrassment and nervousness abound, persuasion au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 08:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13430472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: An epilogue to 'True Minds'.After a marriage of true minds, comes a wedding night of true minds - and a decade of pining, desperate love is quite a build-up to a first night together.





	Safe Harbour

**Author's Note:**

> ...I'm sorry, Ms Austen. I just had to.

The knock at the door makes Mycroft sit up straight, stomach swooping with fear. A gentle tap, merely. He attempts not to allow the words ‘the opening of the hostilities’ to hover in his mind.

“Come in,” he says, as decidedly as he can. Sitting back against the headboard, he pulls the covers up to his neck as the door opens.

Gregory, wearing only a nightgown, enters and shuts the door behind himself.

 _Ankles,_ thinks Mycroft. _I have never seen his ankles before._

_None of this feels real._

Gregory folds the covers back on the other side of the bed, climbs in, and pulls the nightshirt over his head, dropping it on the floor.

 _Shoulders. Chest. Stomach – arms –_ Mycroft’s brain gives up the attempt to rather insistently catalogue all the new skin he is seeing.

 _(Shoulders,_ his brain adds, again, defiantly.)

Gregory turns on his side, leans his head on his hand, and looks at Mycroft with tenderness and just a _tiny_ edge of amusement in his dark brown eyes.

The sheet lies across his stomach.

Mycroft is already desperately _– shamefully –_ hard.

“Mycroft,” murmurs Gregory. He lays his hand on Mycroft’s wrist, gently. “Come and lie down.”

Tension making his movements clumsy, Mycroft lies down. He ensures that his nightgown remains decently around him.

They are not touching.

Gently, Gregory puts his hand on Mycroft’s face, turning his gaze. “You know that we do not have to do – anything,” he says, smiling, “don’t you? We do not even have to share a bed.”

Mycroft looks at him, and frowns crossly, making Gregory smile. “What kind of husband should I be?”

“Mine.”

A pleasant fluttering, low in Mycroft’s belly. He presses his lips together. Every muscle in his body is tensed, as though for flight.

“I – want to,” he says, looking fixedly at the ceiling. He feels himself blush.

“Good,” says Gregory, thumb tracing gentle patterns on the thin skin of Mycroft’s wrist. “Mycroft.”

Reluctantly, Mycroft turns his head to meet his gaze.

“Will you…” Gregory swallows. His eyes are full of vulnerability. “Stay _with_ me? Stay looking at me?”

Mycroft sighs, exasperated with his own incapability. He shifts down the bed a little more, anxiously monitoring the fact that his nightgown rides up a little with the movement. “I shall try,” he whispers. “I am sorry.”

“No,” Gregory shakes his head. “No apologies.” He clears his throat. “You must know that I am –” he gestures a little, fingers flicking across Mycroft’s wrist, “– both as nervous and as inexperienced as you are.”

Mycroft looks at him, rather surprised.

Gregory gives him an amused glance. “The Navy is actually very strict about all that sort of thing,” he says.

Mycroft cannot help laughing, slightly, and Gregory’s eyes fill with relief and warmth.

“Not to forget the fact that, despite myself, you seem to be the only person I know how to love,” murmurs Gregory, softly, kissing Mycroft’s shoulder through his nightgown.

“You are an appalling romantic,” says Mycroft, mock-crossly.

“I know, it’s awful,” smiles Gregory. His expression sobers, slowly. “Can I –” he clears his throat nervously. “My – wedding night – knowledge comes from Harville, who assured me that the first time will probably be pretty awful, and things will steadily improve from there.”

Mycroft, desperately embarrassed, puts both hands over his face. _My only confidences come from Jane, and I tried extremely hard to stop her speaking them._ “I have heard of it only as a rather unpleasant duty,” he says, from behind his hands.

Gregory makes an unhappy noise, and pulls Mycroft’s hands away from his face. “You know I would _never_ make you do something you found unpleasant?” he asks, fiercely.

“Of course,” says Mycroft, at once. “I –” he hesitates, mortification stopping his words. “It seems – _unlikely_ to me that I should find anything unpleasant, with you.”

“Appalling romantic,” whispers Gregory, into Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft rolls his eyes, unable to restrain a smile.

“I simply do not wish you to be anxious,” says Gregory.

Mycroft looks at him; at his kind, worried face. He swallows, nervously, but nods.

There is a long moment of silence. “May I take off your nightgown?” asks Gregory, on a breath.

Mycroft’s heart feels as though it is attempting to climb from his chest. _It is a reasonable request, of course._ Slowly, ensuring that the sheet remains carefully tucked around his waist, he sits up and starts to draw his nightshirt up.

Gregory sits up, too, then kneels behind Mycroft and draws it fully over Mycroft’s head; the brush of the cotton raises goosebumps as it goes.

Mycroft can hardly breathe. _The sheet is not over him. He must be – he must be entirely naked, behind me._

Gently, Gregory kisses Mycroft’s bare shoulder. Mycroft shivers.

“I thought you would have freckles here,” whispers Gregory, lips brushing his skin. His hands are tentatively at Mycroft’s sides, following the ladder of his ribs.

When his fingers reach the sheet, Mycroft wishes to curl up with humiliation. “Do not –” he whispers. “I am –” he clears his throat.

There is a moment of silence. Then Gregory puts his own hand over Mycroft’s. “May I?” he asks, voice rather strangled. He pulls Mycroft’s hand back, a little, to show his intention, then waits.

Mycroft, cheeks flaming, whispers, “yes.”

Gregory guides Mycroft’s hand to the warm, silky-hard length of his prick. His breath catches as Mycroft runs his fingertips slowly over him.

 _I am touching my husband. My husband’s prick._ Mycroft’s stiffness jerks and throbs beneath the sheet. He snatches his hand away, suddenly fearful of his own reactions.

Gregory lies down, and draws Mycroft down too. “Was that – not –” he says, hesitantly, biting his lip.

Mycroft gasps, closing his eyes with embarrassment. “I – my reactions are –” he makes an angry noise of frustration. “I shall have no – self-control,” he whispers, at last.

Gregory kisses his shoulder. “Look at me?”

Wincing with mortification, Mycroft opens his eyes.

“When – did you last –” Gregory swallows, cheeks red. “Do you ever – relieve matters?” he takes a deep breath.

Mycroft blushes. “I attempt not to.”

“So the last time you – you reached a climax –”

“Perhaps a month,” says Mycroft, quietly, avoiding his eyes.

“Right,” says Gregory. “Well, you should know that that – um – _happened_ for me last night, so –” he laughs, quietly. “You are at a disadvantage.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes at him, but he can’t help the twitching at the edges of his lips. “‘Happened’?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Quiet, husband,” says Gregory, kissing Mycroft’s shoulder again, cheeks flushing redder still. “I was thinking about tonight.”

Mycroft puts a hand over his eyes and groans. “Was _this_ what you envisioned?”

Gregory pulls the hand away. “I had no idea what I was thinking about, Mycroft,” he says, with amused, gentle eyes. “Don’t you dare try to think this isn’t good enough. No daydream could possibly be better than being here, in bed with you.”

Mycroft looks at him, and shakes his head slightly. “You are impossible.”

“So are you.” Gregory smiles, and bites gently at the skin of Mycroft’s shoulder. “So – when you –” he clears his throat. “Do you – employ your hand?”

Mycroft wants to hide under the sheet and never come out. Instead, he nods, avoiding eye contact.

“Perhaps we could – do that first?” asks Gregory, blushing fiercely. “I think perhaps it would help you – _us_ – relax.”

Mycroft turns on his side and hides his face against Gregory’s chest. He groans with mute, frustrated embarrassment.

Gregory buries his lips in Mycroft's hair and smiles, then chuckles, leaving a trail of kisses. “Come here,” he murmurs. “Come here to me.”

Mycroft goes, shuffling closer, holding his hips away until the last.

Gregory takes his hand, putting the other on the edge of the sheet. “I'm going to pull the sheet away,” whispers Gregory.

 _Oh, God,_ says Mycroft's brain, but Gregory seems in control, of a sudden. He wants, desperately; desires but is afraid.

He nods, slightly, against Gregory's _(broad, tanned, muscled)_ chest. A brief flash of jealousy towards all those sailors who had had eight years of watching his Gregory labouring without a shirt in tropical climes – _ludicrous. He is in your arms at this very moment. He is yours._

The sheet pulls back, and Mycroft looks at his husband's thick, hard prick, rising from a triangle of dark brown hair.

_Well, that hair is not silver. Did I expect it to be? I have no idea._

Gregory's hand tangles with his own; pauses just above Mycroft's straining, rigid prick. Gregory makes eye contact. “Yes?”

Mycroft's mouth is dry. “Yes,” he whispers.

The sensation of touching himself, Gregory's hand heavy on his, makes him gasp and groan. “I –” he whispers. “Gregory –”

“Yes, sweetheart?” murmurs Gregory. He shifts a little closer, kisses Mycroft's shoulder, then begins to lay a trail of kisses along his collarbone, toward his neck.

 _Sweetheart._ Mycroft attempts to control his breathing. “Should I – do something for – for you?” he gasps.

“You, for now, beautiful,” whispers Gregory. “I want you to feel good.” He takes Mycroft's earlobe delicately between his teeth and nibbles, then flicks at it with his tongue.

Mycroft’s thigh and stomach muscles tense and flutter. “Oh –” he breathes.

“Good?” asks Gregory, softly, pausing in his actions.

“Y-yes – I –”

Gregory kisses his jaw, soft, dragging kisses back towards his ear. “You don't know what you look like,” he murmurs. “You look so beautiful, sweetheart, with your hand on yourself. You are flushed and your hair is out of order and no-one in the world but me has seen you like this.” He brushes his lips softly over Mycroft's ear, then touches the lobe with the tip of his tongue. “I’ve dreamed about you, darling,” he whispers. “Here, with me, like this. Seeing every part of you. Touching you. Kissing you.”

Mycroft needs more – a little more friction – he tightens his hand around his prick, and his stomach flips as he feels Gregory's hand tighten too.

The next touch Mycroft feels is a kiss, gentle, next to his lips.

 _I know this, anyway._ They had kissed a good deal before the wedding, finding time alone, lips exploring, pressing below jaws and beneath collars –

Gregory bites delicately at his bottom lip, runs his tongue where he has bitten; presses them closer together, and Mycroft can feel how hard Gregory is, against his hip, as their tongues touch –

“Gregory,” he pants, breaking away from the kiss. He stills his hand, tightening his stomach muscles. “Gregory – no – I shall – make a mess –”

“Mmmm,” hums Gregory, low and dark, in his ear. “Yes. I want to see you. I want to watch you.”

Mycroft moans, hardly recognising his own voice. “Oh –” He cannot help it. He begins to stroke his prick again.

“You do not know what you do to me, Mycroft,” whispers Gregory, “when you say my name.”

Mycroft moves, slightly, pressing his hip against Gregory's hardness. _Perhaps I do._

Gregory chuckles, and bites his earlobe. “Mycroft,” he whispers. “Make a mess for me, sweetheart.”

Mycroft’s back arches from the bed, heels digging in as he loses control entirely, spilling himself again and again across his chest, his stomach, his hand. “Gregory – oh, Gregory –”

Bliss radiates through him, seeming to draw him down into the mattress. Heart pounding, he opens his eyes.

Gregory is flushed, biting his lip, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. His prick is hot and hard against Mycroft's hip.

He smiles and wipes Mycroft's chest and stomach with the nightgown, kissing his sternum once it is done. “You looked beautiful,” he says, voice rough.

Mycroft rolls onto his side. Suddenly what he sees is quite different: all the places he wants to explore. All the areas of Gregory's skin he has never kissed; circumscribed to him until now. All the places that may make him gasp, or say Mycroft's name, or utter some profanity.

Mycroft pushes Gregory onto his back, and runs his fingers lightly over his stomach, smiling as his muscles tense, as he seems about to laugh or squirm.

Mycroft bends to kiss Gregory's lips, teasing the seam with his tongue, then moving down, over his chin, under his jaw.

“This place,” he murmurs, brushing his lips across the dip at the base of Gregory’s neck. “I have longed for this place.”

He looks up to find Gregory watching him with tenderness in his eyes. The candles on the bedside tables flicker, casting pools of shadow and light. Gregory draws one finger down the line of Mycroft’s jaw.

Mycroft captures it and kisses the tip of his finger.

Heart pounding, Mycroft curls his hand into Gregory’s palm. “Let me?” he murmurs, looking up at his husband through his eyelashes. “Show me?”

The catch in Gregory’s breath tells its own tale, but he hesitates. “If you are sure.”

Mycroft kisses the plane of Gregory’s broad chest. “Yes.”

Slowly, Gregory draws Mycroft’s hand downwards, over his stomach; until at last, Mycroft curls his fingers tentatively around the base of his prick.

Gregory gasps, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Mycroft nuzzles softly at the skin beneath his collarbone, not moving his hand yet; becoming accustomed to the feeling.

Gregory's hand covers his, not moving. His eyes flutter open.

Mycroft settles himself on his side, close, and runs his fingertips slowly up the length of Gregory's prick, which jumps under his touch. He seeks the safety of Gregory's palm again, and looks to him for guidance.

Slowly, watching Mycroft all the time, Gregory tightens his hand, one long stroke from base to tip of his length; not gripping hard, not forcing Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft wants to reassure him, _I want this, more than I can say._ He leans down and kisses Gregory on the lips, then tightens his fingers slightly.

_His prick is so hard, so heavy in my hand. He gasps as I tighten my grip a little – there –_

Mycroft, remembering how good it had felt, kisses Gregory's ear, closing his lips, and then his teeth, on the lobe. His own embarrassment is all but gone, now; his blood rushes with the desire to make Gregory feel the same bliss he had given.

 _The pad of my thumb, stroking across the silky head of his prick_ – a bead of moisture slicks his thumb, viscous and clear; Mycroft rubs at it tentatively. The surrendering, desperate moan that Gregory attempts to bite back makes Mycroft’s stomach clench with lust.

Gregory's hips shift a little, until he holds himself still again. _He wishes to push up, into my hand._ Shameful memories of surrendering to his own needs return to Mycroft: kneeling on his bed, prick in hand, hips thrusting, stroking himself through the circle of his grip –

_The problem with denying oneself is that, once you break, you break spectacularly._

_I have denied myself my Gregory for too long._

_Break. Spectacularly._

“Kneel,” he whispers in Gregory's ear, not quite understanding his own daring.

Gregory's eyes widen. Mycroft removes his hand from Gregory's prick, and sits up himself. He pulls his husband up to kneel beside him, kissing his side, his ribs, his hip bone. When he wraps his hand around him again, he does not wait for Gregory's guidance.

Gregory's prick strains in his grip.

Mycroft’s left hand plays down over the soft skin of Gregory's tanned back; settles at the base of his spine. His right moves, slowly, along the length of his prick.

“Will you move your hips for me?” he asks, eyes turned up to meet Gregory's dark gaze. He looks dazed with need. _He is close to his crisis, I think._ Arousal curls in Mycroft's stomach. His own prick is growing hard again.

Tentatively, watching Mycroft as though unsure his actions will be acceptable, Gregory thrusts his hips forward. Not far, or hard, but Mycroft tightens his grip at the same moment, and Gregory's groan of delight makes his heart lurch. _Oh, God._

“Yes,” whispers Mycroft, against Gregory's side. He flicks his tongue out to lick Gregory's hip bone. “Again.”

Again, Gregory thrusts; this time, he puts his hand on Mycroft's shoulder to steady himself, allowing his head to fall back. His breathing is uneven, almost a groan.

Mycroft strokes him steadily, left hand at the base of his spine, urging him on; _take, take from me everything that you need_ –

“Mycroft – darlin’” moans Gregory, fingers tight on Mycroft's shoulder. He looks down, now, at his prick, thrusting through Mycroft's fingers. “It is – too much –”

Mycroft looks up at him, adoringly, and kisses his hip bone. “Good.”

Gregory laughs wildly, eyes bright in the candlelight; looking into Mycroft's eyes, he thrusts once, twice more. He moans, eyes falling closed as he begins to spill himself, spurting across the bedsheets and Mycroft's hand. When his hips still, Mycroft strokes him, gently, until Gregory bends to kiss him.

“Sweetheart. Darling.”

“Say it correctly, Gregory. Or rather, less correctly.”

For a moment, Gregory looks confused. Then he grins. He lies down, drawing Mycroft down to curl against his side. “Darlin’?” he asks. “Are you poking fun at my upbringing, my dear sweet gentlehusband?”

Mycroft laughs, burying his face in Gregory's neck. “Not at all,” he murmurs. “It seems I have an affection for that particular pronunciation.”

Gregory smiles, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Why might that be?” he asks, teasingly.

“Entirely due to context, I believe,” murmurs Mycroft. His prick is hard against Gregory's hip; he feels neither urgency nor embarrassment.

“Harville was wrong,” says Gregory, wrapping his arms around Mycroft. “The first time is only hard to navigate at first.”

Mycroft smiles against his chest. _Yes, Captain._ “Safe harbour,” he murmurs, fondly.

“Always,” whispers Gregory. “Always, darlin’. I swear it.”

 


End file.
